


Heller Als Tausend Sonnen

by Cylin



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, First Time, German Language, Hurt/Comfort/Hurt, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Telepathy Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-02
Updated: 2012-06-01
Packaged: 2017-10-28 18:11:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/310703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cylin/pseuds/Cylin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The title translates to 'Brighter Than A Thousand Suns'.<br/><i>Erik has a tin box no bigger than a shoe box with all that he holds dear and simultaneously hates with a passion.</i><br/><i>He keeps his passport in there, the coin, his knife, which he brought back from Argentina, his gun, a piece of blue and white striped fabric wrapped around a lock of hair – </i>Magda<i>, he thinks and his heart aches – and on the bottom, underneath a much thumbed postcard of Lady Liberty, tucked away from prying eyes and fingers, lies a yellow star with a pink triangle sewn over it.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve used terms and expressions in here which are considered derogatory. I have used them not with the intent to hurt or offend anyone, but because I think that’s how the characters would use them at the time.
> 
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> 
>  For Translations to the foreign sentences (German, Yiddish and Hebrew), just hover your mouse over the sentence - A translation will pop up! :D
> 
>  
> 
> Betaed again by the fabulous Ginbitch (LJ) and Shiromori! Love you two! You are brilliant betas!

Heller Als Tausend Sonnen

He cannot see her face. All he can remember is the sound she made as she hit the floor: the muffled slap of meat and bones, suddenly without tension to keep her up, to keep her animated, because he could feel the metal inside her head. It had lodged deep in her skull after it stopped bouncing around the bones. He felt that, too. He could not move the coin, but he felt the slug ricocheting off the inside of the curved bone of his mother’s skull. How could he not move it, but feel _that_?

He has a crystal clear memory of Schmidt’s hand patting his shoulder and, from that moment on, he cannot recall her face. It is all gone inside the rage, bleached to nothingness inside his head by his anger and the guilt. The guilt more than anything else. He was supposed to save her; he knew that he could, but in that moment he was weak.

Now, years after the camps, after a number was punched into his skin, after the people he had seen die, the people Schmidt had made him kill, he understands that he had been just a little boy. There was nothing he could have done differently. It is a logical thought, the right thought, but the guilt remains, bright as ever. It awakens his hatred – so much so that he refuses to speak the same language as them, as people like Schmidt. His mother tongue has been tainted forever. He wonders briefly about the connection between language and mothers. _Muttersprache_.

He learned English and French and Spanish to perfection to communicate, but also to hide who he is, what he’s become. For years he hasn’t spoken a word of German.  He reserves that for Schmidt, for when he will kill him. The anger keeps him alive, it fuels his life, his fire, but it shines so brightly, he can never recall her face. It is as if the intense heat, light and radiation of his anger burn any images of her from his mind. Schmidt has made her into just a shadow on a wall inside his head.

He misses her.

And he feels guilty again that he has sacrificed even her memory for the man he hates with a passion so intense it is like acid corroding metal.

He looks absentmindedly at the coin floating between his fingers. He sees the light glinting off the grooves on the curved side. It had been new when he’d gotten it, brand new, the swastikaunder the eagle gleaming, unblemished. But it is different from other coins where the ridges on the rim would become blunted by fingers handling them over time.  He has never touched it after that day, never had to again, keeping the edges sharp.

The coin jerks forward sharply and rams its ridged side into the drawing of his tormentor’s face.

xXx

The first time Charles meets him is in the water. It is dark and wet and very, very cold.

Charles sees inside him, and sees at first only a blinding white light of pure rage, a flash brighter than a thousand suns, obliterating memories, feelings, attachments, dependencies, love and comfort, swiping the plane clean of anything that is beautiful and soothing, leaving a mental wasteland with dissolved bodies buried under the scorched dust. Charles understands then that the man in the submarine, the man called _Herr Doktor_ by this mind, is the obliterating detonation and the shock wave to all those memories.

But what he encounters underneath the dust and rubble, as he carefully scrapes away the silica burned to hardened glass, is a beautiful mind, but also a dark mind, a damaged mind, a pained and tortured mind, not less beautiful for all that. It is powerful and driven and full of anger, but there can also be compassion, and there is fire and a strong sense of right and wrong. He feels the other’s true mind and it supplies him instantly with a self, an identity, a name. _Erik_.

It pronounces itself inside his head like Erik himself would pronounce it; the sound of the first syllable slightly stretched, the second syllable softening to a breathy ‘g’ instead of the sharp Anglo-Saxon ‘k’. _German_ , Charles’s conscious supplies, but when they break the surface of the water and speak for the first time, Erik sounds nothing like the Germans Charles has heard before. His accent is muddled, difficult to define, like someone has scraped it clean with a wire brush. For a long time Charles is confused about the man.

xXx

_Erik, you decided to stay._

It bounces around Erik’s head like a bullet, has drawn endless circles inside his mind. Even after they had to leave the CIA, even after they have moved into Charles’s ancestral home, it is still there: so hopeful, so elated, this statement, like Charles is genuinely happy to have him by his side. It ignites a mirroring hope inside himself, an elation, a want – a want that pierces like a projectile, shredding denial and self control. He doesn’t want that. Erik does not have use for this feeling, for this need, but he cannot stop feeling it either.

“Erik?” Charles asks, one eyebrow raised.

“Sorry, what?”

“You were miles away, weren’t you?” Charles phrases it as a question, but it’s more of a statement, and Erik winces inwardly, looking over the lawns stretching out in front of them, thinking, _Why not? He is a telepath. He can know what you know, plucking it from your mind instantly. Everything. Every secret, every dark desire._ That thought makes Erik clam up, his face hardening. “I do apologise, Charles. What where you asking?” He grits his teeth in a grotesque facsimile of a polite smile.

Charles obviously picks up on the weird expression, but doesn’t comment.

“I was just curious about your accent, Erik,” he says carefully, eyeing his expression, and for some unfathomable reason this careful treatment makes Erik seethe silently inside.

“What is it about my accent?” Erik is willing to play ball if it keeps Charles occupied enough not to root around in his head. Any more than he already has, that is.

“Well, my friend, it doesn’t sound very German,” Charles says then with a guilty expression, adding quickly, “I mean, that’s great! It’s really great, just unusual.”

“I don’t speak much German anymore.” _That is reserved for other people_ , Erik thinks darkly with a hint of twisted pride. “I speak English.” Erik believes that this answer should rightfully be enough to end the conversation, but apparently Charles thinks otherwise. He seems even more intrigued rather than discouraged.

“Really? But German’s your mother-tongue.”

Erik winces at the word. There it is again, _Muttersprache_. “Yes,” he answers in a clipped tone.

Charles, of course, notices it. _Or he has just stolen it from my mind_ , Erik thinks unkindly. “Is it…. Is it because of your past?” Charles asks with caution in his voice that makes Erik’s teeth hurt.

“Why do you ask questions you already know the answers to?” Erik asks coldly.

Charles’s brows shoot up at that. He looks genuinely shocked. “Oh, my friend – Erik – I wasn’t reading you! At all,” he says, almost pleading for understanding, “I would never do that without your permission.”

“You already did,” Erik points out sharply and smiles at the uncomfortable look creeping over Charles’s face. _That will keep him away… and maybe this stupid want with him._

“You were drowning.”

 _As if that is a reason_ , Erik thinks bitterly, but still he smiles coolly at him, turning to go.

“German is not owned by the NS Regime, Erik. It is yours and yours to use.”

That makes Erik stop in his tracks and whirl around, shooting a glare as hard as flint at Charles. “And what do you know, you little English prick? Huh? What do you know?” The words sound like curses, leaving his lips in brittle, cutting sounds.

That language is tainted. There are words he cannot use anymore without memories resurfacing. He cannot justifiably use this mother-tongue - his mother’s tongue - without her. And she has been gone for years now. This language is not his anymore. It’s so intertwined with what he’s lost that every word of German makes his innards recoil and hurt in remembrance of so much pain and guilt over forgetting what he held most dear as a boy. Schmidt killed her, but Erik has killed her memory to harness his anger.  German is another casualty, buried in foreign soil, consigned with her to a mass grave. Smoke from a chimney. Ash on the tongue.

“I don’t, actually. You’re right,” Charles agrees solemnly, “but I’d like to know. Please tell me.”

“No.”

“It’s such a beautiful language, Erik,” Charles murmurs and is assaulted by a sudden yearning. He imagines the foreign sounds in Erik’s voice, the wet fricatives, the roll of Erik’s tongue over long, soft vowels, flicking against the inner side of his teeth to produce the explosive consonants, the way his throat constricts slightly to form the weirdly rolling, guttural German ‘r’. Charles is surprised at the intense shudder that rises up his spine. He manages to suppress it just at the last moment.

He stares at Erik, as if he has done something to warrant such a reaction, as if it is his fault. He knows it isn’t, but he is unprepared for this reaction, this feeling, this scorching _need_.

_Oh God._

Charles’s look makes cold dread seep into Erik’s bones. It hits Erik like a punch because it is instantly answered inside himself and he has no defence against that. He needs to go. He needs to go and remember why he cannot entertain this, this… whatever this is.

He cannot lose focus. He cannot follow this instinct, this need. It is unhelpful, and it adds to the guilt he already feels. It reminds him that he cannot really have a family. But then, his Jewish line ended with his mother, anyway. But he cannot have this. It is filthy and disgusting and primal, and not his to have. As open-minded as he is, Charles – proper, innocent, excitable Charles – could never answer Erik’s desires. He shouldn’t. Never!

Overwhelmed and angry with himself, Erik just turns around and walks away.

Charles is left standing on the gravel of the lawn and has no idea how to even interpret what he has just discovered about himself. He assumes Erik left because he wanted to end the conversation, and that is just as well because Charles needs to think.

xXx

Charles has felt alone all his life. Yes, he was not alone, strictly speaking; Raven has always been there, it seems, but there is something else. There is something else that Charles cannot, despite both of them being mutants, share with her. It has nothing to do with mutations, or maybe it does. Charles really isn’t sure. _After all, it is the genes that define who we are, isn’t it?_

He wants to talk to Erik about that, about this specific theory – how genes define sexual preference – but he is not sure how to broach the subject. He has seen much in the other man, literally and figuratively, but there are things he has not dared to touch. _And how do you talk about genetics with a Holocaust victim when the very justification used for that genocide was genetics?_ Charles is aware that this particular field of science, as with the development of the nuclear bomb, was heavily influenced, its knowledge furthered by that dark, dark period in European history.

But if he is honest with himself - and yes, he is aware how weird that is, that he prides himself on being honest with anyone _but_ himself – genetics is not really what he wants to talk to Erik about. It is just a stepping stone, a symptom of what Charles would like to explore, but is too afraid to even name in his own head.

 _How do you go through life having a strong sense of who you are, only to realise it has all been a lie from the beginning?_ he wonders. _How do you cope? How do you change and reconcile the new self with the old. Or has the new self always been the old, just repressed, and unfulfilled?_

Charles wonders what could possibly be the reason for him to entertain these thoughts now. Why did Erik bring this out in him? Can he just blame his friend for that, or isn’t it only fair to really look at himself and find the answers? He likes the other man. Probably more than he ever should. There is something about him. Erik’s not subtle. He never was. All that he is is right there at the forefront. He might sound generically middle-European – hell, he even sounds pretty close to a Frenchman when he speaks that language –  but he is very German: direct, uncompromising, intense.

It speaks to a part of Charles that he thinks wryly is his overly correct, polite, British self. Erik’s directness strikes a chord with his own controlled behaviour. Charles would like to let go, like Erik can let go, but he knows it is dangerous. He can see it eating at the man: the things he has seen and remembers, and even more so, the things he has forgotten.

How could he burden the man further with this stupid attraction? Then there is also religion to consider, too. As far as Charles knows, Judaism does not punish mere homosexual attraction, but definitely acting upon it. And Charles _wants_ to act upon it. God, he so wants to, it twists in his gut. His breath catches in his throat at the thought. He wants to feel, taste and touch. The need pulls him in so much that Charles can’t help but moan quietly to himself, but he cannot follow it because he is sure Erik would reject him and feel disgusted – possibly even violated – at being the focus of Charles’s desires.

 _God, why could I never just stick to women?_ he thinks, his head filling with sickened self-loathing. This isn’t the first time he’s been attracted to another man, but never with such intensity, and never to such a close friend.

xXx

Erik has a tin box, no bigger than a shoe box, containing all that he holds dear and simultaneously hates with a passion.

He keeps his passport in there, the coin, the knife which he brought back from Argentina, his gun, a piece of blue and white striped fabric wrapped around a lock of hair – _Magda_ , he thinks, and his heart aches – and on the bottom, underneath a much thumbed postcard of Lady Liberty, tucked away from prying eyes and fingers, lies a yellow star with a pink triangle sewn over it.

He takes the little piece of fabric out and places it cautiously on the bed next to the tin box, then he places everything carefully back into the box, closes the lid and takes the star. He sits down on the floor, his back leaning against the mattress, and presses the star just above his heart, feeling the warmth of his hand seeping through the pink triangle, through the yellow star underneath, and into his skin. After a while his breathing slows gradually and the desire is pushed away by that cold, familiar feeling of loathing.

What he wants, what he desires, is not what he can have or what he should need. He can fight this. He can forget this feeling if he can remember, if the images of men tortured and beaten to death in the camps by the SS and fellow prisoners never die inside his head.

Calm slowly seeps like decaying silt into his body.

There is a soft knock at the door. Before Erik can dissuade whoever it is from entering, Charles has already stepped into the room. “Erik, if you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to you about – ” Charles stops abruptly as Erik jumps up from the floor, startled. His hands grasp for something, but it falls slowly to the carpet like a leaf.

The little, simple piece of yellow and pink fabric lies between them on the floor. They stare at it as it lies there. Such a simple piece of fabric should not possibly possess such meaning and power.

Charles slowly leans down and picks up the star. His fingers trail over the rough fabric, the triangle sewn over the star giving it a whole new meaning for him besides a concentration camp designation for a Jew. His hands shake. Male, _homosexual_ Jew.

“Erik.” It sounds awkward, confused.

“Charles,” Erik answers without any emotion, stiffly refraining from looking at him. He had never dared to look directly at the Waffen-SS either.

“I… I didn’t know.”

Erik smiles wryly, but he finds no pleasure in it, replying mockingly, “I thought you knew everything about me.”

Charles is quiet. “Not that,” he says finally in a small voice.

 _So there are things you can hide from a telepath,_ Erik thinks bitterly, _if you put them far enough down, hide them under enough shame, Charles especially would never probe there_. He waits, waits for the sound of the closing door, or a snort of derision, or a sigh of disgust, but it is utterly quiet in the room.

“How did they find out?” Charles asks, and Erik thinks that of all the questions his friend could ask, this is the weirdest of them all, but he should have known that this little British professor would be too tactful to jump to the more obvious enquiries. Or throw him out right away. After all, he knows now that Erik is not fit to be around the kids – most of all the boys.

With an unkind feeling, Erik thinks that maybe having a mutation is, for the second time in his life, doing him a favour, and it might be the only thing keeping Charles from severing all ties to him. They are mutants, aren’t they? And therefore they stick together, whether one’s a perverted sodomite or not, right?

 _Cheers all around for mutations_ , Erik thinks contemptuously. “I grew up around Schmidt. He figured it out eventually.” Erik can feel the next question hanging in the air and Charles struggling to find a way to ask it tactfully, or how not to ask at all but still satisfy his curiosity.

“Did he…?” Charles trails off uncomfortably.

Erik feels the small, charitable impulse to rescue his friend from that sickening place inside his own head, “No, never.” Erik snorts disdainfully. “He found it disgusting. He changed the star accordingly, and that was that.” Erik smiles without humour, finally plucking the star from Charles’s unresisting fingers. “Because of my _mutation_ ,” the word sounds like a brittle curse, “I was too valuable for anyone to ever lay a hand on me. In any way.”

Charles swallows, trying to ignore the uncomfortably stifling closeness that has encroached on the room.

“Leave, please,” Erik says quietly after another moment of uncomfortable silence between them.

“Ok,” Charles answers and the quiet acquiescence rankles. Charles should be angry at him for keeping this from him, for being able to deceive a telepath, for needing what he needs. Erik wants anger and rage, not compassion and understanding.

There is nothing to understand and nothing to feel compassionate about. _There should be hate and cruelty_ , he thinks, _it’s the only right reaction to this_.

Erik hears the door of his room close quietly as Charles leaves and he feels cheated. Why, he is not sure himself.

xXx

The next evening, they play chess without talking about it. It is like nothing out of the ordinary has happened. To Erik, it is an uneasy peace.

They play without engaging in an intellectual discussion about right and wrong or anything else that usually crops up. They just play, and despite the differences from the usual routine, it still feels almost normal and not normal at all. They play and the night goes on, bleeding slowly into early morning.

“Fucking Hell!” Charles shouts suddenly over the chess board. Erik is confused for a moment about which of his moves might warrant such a strong reaction. He looks at the man – his friend still? – sitting across from him with a raised eyebrow. Charles runs his fingers forcefully through his hair. He clutches at it distractedly, pulling hard, as he tries to find the words. “I don’t know who I am anymore, who you are … to me,” he manages eventually.

“What do you mean?”

“I… I don’t know how… I mean…”

Erik feels his hands go clammy and then ice cold. He should have known this would happen sooner rather than later. He should know people better than that by now, instead of nursing a stupid hope of not loosing a friend. His only friend. He feels suddenly old, very old, as if a whole lifetime is resting on his Atlas shoulders. “Let me make this easier for you: is it because of the pink triangle?”

“Erik, I…”

“It’s ok, Charles. I understand.”

“Really?” Charles asks, unconvinced. He has the distinct feeling that this conversation is beginning to rapidly slide out of his grasp.

“I can be gone by tomorrow. It’s no trouble.”

Charles stops all movement and feels freezing goose bumps spring up all over his body. His skin feels like it tries to shrink down to only one square inch and crush his organs in the process. For a moment he cannot move.

Erik’s kind, understanding smile is a frozen grimace on his face.

Charles finally manages to shake the stupor off and jumps up out of his chair, subconsciously dispelling his nervous energy. “God, Erik, no! No! Heavens, no!” He rakes his hands through his hair again, walking agitatedly back and forth in front of Erik.

“Then what do you mean?” Erik finally asks, starting to get annoyed at Charles’s pacing and obtuse blabbering. Charles stops abruptly, looking like he has swallowed his tongue. _He looks trapped_ , Erik thinks, and it astonishes him how very trapped and downright frightened he looks.

Charles’s mouth forms the words, but they are just raspy breaths in the air, “I… I’m like you.”

Erik’s eyes widen for a second, then narrow in an angry frown. “I’m no mind reader, Charles, but I am not stupid.”

Charles is even more confused now. He has never thought Erik to be stupid in any way. Stubborn, yes, but not stupid. He hopes he has never let the other man feel as if he did think that.

Erik sees the confusion on his face and elaborates, “I know you’ve only started entertaining this notion since you saw my star. So, why now? If Raven is to be believed, you’ve had all the girls in every port, so to speak, so why the change of heart now?”

Charles has nothing to answer to that and Erik’s cruel smile grows more smug with every second ticking by. Without thinking, Charles replies quietly, “Because it’s you.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“But – ”

“No, Charles. To you, this is just experimentation with something perverted that is all the more alluring because it is wrong. But for me, it’s different, and I – ” Erik stops abruptly when he sees Charles blanch in anger. His clenched hands quiver at his sides, tension turning the knuckles a ghostly white. “How dare you tell me what I’ve been thinking or feeling, you pompous, arrogant arse!” Charles seethes, pressing the words between teeth bared in beautiful rage.

 _Yes, there it is_ , Erik thinks and tries to hide his smile. _Anger, my old friend_. It is so much easier to deal with than a compassionate Charles – or a desiring one. “So, tell me then, _my friend_ ,” he uses the endearment intentionally only to see Charles flinch slightly at the scathing undercurrent, “How many men have you fucked?”

Charles’s eyes slide uneasily to the side, avoiding his, but he does not blush. If possible, he looks even more conflicted, and Erik thinks that maybe it’s an internal struggle that is both old and new for Charles. Erik has obviously triggered a change in him, and it seems Charles is intrigued by the possibility of acting on these new impulses.

But then Erik is wondering, _Maybe an attraction like this has actually always been there for Charles._ Could it be that Erik has not triggered it, but has just made him realise it has been there all along? Erik entertains that thought briefly, but then shakes it off. No. That is highly unlikely. From what he knows of Charles, he is a thrill-seeker. Perhaps he is just enjoying playing with fire, but Erik refuses to be a match. He has too much to lose. He can’t afford to jeopardise this friendship for a desire and need that he might feel towards Charles and that Charles is curious enough to exploit.

The silence stretches between them. Erik is still waiting for an answer just to make this as uncomfortable as he can for the other man, and Charles is refusing to give in. Erik can see in the nervous twitch of his left hand that Charles is dying to use his power to learn what Erik is really thinking, to learn what to say so he can persuade him. Erik lets his eyes drop to the twitching fingers and hardens his gaze, intentionally thinking a very loud, _Don’t you dare snoop around in here!_ Charles’s fingers hastily stop their nervous movement.

“How can you know you’re queer if you’ve no experience whatsoever?”

“In the camp, how did _you_ know then?” Charles counters, sounding calmer, but stand-offish and annoyed all the same.

Erik’s face breaks into a small smile. “Touché,” he murmurs. _Fine_ , Erik thinks with a smile that is cruel in its fake indulgence.  I _f Charles wants to embark on a quest for knowledge, he can easily provide it. Let him see how dark and winding the rabbit hole is, what lurks in the dark corners of sexual desire, what a man like me would like to do to a man like him. Scare him out of Wonderland._

“So, you want to know what it is like?” Erik asks finally getting up from his seat, his smile still calculating, his eyes dark. His mind is going through every scenario he can think of, trying to find the most shocking, the most feral and deviant. _Just for you, my friend_ , he thinks to himself sadistically.

Charles has the appropriate decency to blush a flustered red at Erik’s question, looking at the carpet. “Do you want to…have sex…?” Charles trails off and looks unsure. He isn’t reading Erik at all apparently, otherwise he would already know.

A sudden wave of searing lust shoots through Erik at the unsure but hopeful and boyish expression on Charles’s face.

Charles unexpectedly stumbles back as if Erik had slapped him, panting. He pushes both hands hard between his legs, keening and nearly doubling over. Erik rushes to his side, suddenly worried, holding him up, but when Charles raises his eyes, the blue of his irises is just a thin line around the fathomless black of his dilated pupils. “Sorry, Erik, I’m so sorry,” Charles stutters guiltily between breathless pants, “I can’t keep you out… when you’re…doing that…so close to me.”

“Oh,” Erik breathes as he understands, elation and wanton hunger bubbling up even more, seemingly from nowhere. Erik is astonished and feels slightly betrayed by the strength of his own reaction. His mind is completely blank for a moment, all his carefully calculated scenarios gone, replaced by an all-encompassing hot, pulsing desire. Another wave shoots through him, unbidden, unwanted, but strong, making Charles whimper helplessly beside him.

“Tell me,” Erik whispers then, feeling daring and devious. He can already feel the familiar presence in his mind, awkward, but polite all the same, and he has the distinct feeling this whole situation is sidling ever closer to slipping out of his control. A different scenario unfolds, then, and blooms beautifully in his mind.

“Oh, God,” Charles moans. “Erik, I – ” he breaks off suddenly as another wave shoots straight to Erik’s cock at Charles’s tone. Erik grips Charles by both shoulders, just steadying him as he shudders.

“Tell me,” Erik repeats, sounding for all the world as calm as ever, but Charles knows that’s not the case. He is unable not to feel the gyrating, erotically thrusting, languidly hot swipes of Erik’s mind against his own. Not when it’s so strong, not when he’s so close to him, not when they are touching and not when Erik’s mind is so Goddamn _loud_. Charles whimpers again and feels Erik’s fingers tighten for a moment on his shoulders.

“You want – ” Charles swallows, actually looking completely thrown for the first time ever in front of Erik, trying to find polite words for the indecent, obscene images, “You want to touch me.” Charles’s voice is low, husky and small, shuddering out of his chest and he has to grip himself harder at hearing it himself.

Erik’s fingers on his shoulders twitch. Charles’s words are so tame, but despite it, or maybe because of it, they sear and burn.

“Not just like this,” Charles goes on, emboldened by the tiny shivers he can feel in Erik’s breaths ghosting across his face, “but here.” He rubs both hands flat against his crotch once, moaning softly. Erik’s eyes snap to the movement immediately, but he does not move.

“What else?” Erik rasps, and the damp of his breath clings to the bridge of Charles’s nose and cheekbones before it evaporates. Charles closes his eyes for a moment, desperately trying to calm himself.

“You want to kiss me,” Charles whispers, his lips are tingling as if hey had already done it. “You want to kiss my stomach,” one of Charles’s hands flutters over the fabric of his expensive shirt, covering his navel, then stops abruptly. “And – oh God – _lower_.”

Erik’s breath explodes over his face in a sudden, moist gust of a moan. His fingers dig into the muscles of Charles’s shoulders almost like claws. _Shit, I’ve made a mistake_ , Erik thinks frantically, clinging to Charles’s shoulders. _I should stop._

“You want,” Charles swallows harshly, “You want to swipe your tongue over – God, Erik, _please_.”

“Go on.” Erik’s voice is just a helplessly, breathless rasp and his fingers tighten rhythmically against Charles’s shoulders in an involuntary mimicry of stroking touches.

Charles pants. He is flushed, and sweat has gathered on the nape of his neck and along his spine. It is slowly slithering down the curve of his back underneath all of his clothes, sliding between his arse cheeks.

Erik feels the mirror sensation of it ghosting along his back. “You want to lick that away, too,” Charles whispers. “But most of all, you want to suck me.”

“Yes,” Erik moans softly, sounding completely wrecked. Charles shudders at the sound. He wants to sink to his knees and do exactly to Erik what Erik wants to do to him. Right now. Erik’s knees almost give out for a moment at the thoughts, feelings, _images_ Charles pushes at him. He has the sudden cruel insight that he has played this all wrong and has miscalculated spectacularly. _I have to stop_. He grips Charles’s shoulders like a vice and Charles shudders at that, too.

“You would bury your nose in my crotch and inhale,” Charles continues single-mindedly.

“Yes,” Erik groans, unable to stop, unable to pull free, unable to end this.

“You’d kiss me there, your saliva gathering in your mouth – _fuck_ – wet, slick.” Charles can feel his own saliva flooding into his mouth under his tongue at the thought.

“God, yes, and then?” Erik gasps, swallowing.

Charles whimpers. He can already feel the telltale tightening in his lower stomach and balls.

“You’d take all that saliva and –” Charles has to stop, his voice breaking on a whimper, “and, and you’d, _Erik_ , you’d engulf – _God, Erik_.” It’s suddenly, explosively too much. Charles feels the wave of orgasm swell, the tightening in his balls, the almost cramping of all his muscles. He doesn’t know where to put his hands, so he just tightens them where they are on his crotch, relishing the sudden pressure, his hips snapping forward. He moans sweetly, gutturally, letting his head drop forward, shuddering through his release.

And then, suddenly Erik is there, his shoulder cushioning Charles’s cheek, his fingers tightening even more on Charles’s shoulders. Erik bites his neck as he thrusts his hips forward sharply, grunting. Charles can feel the hardness there, rubbing against the backs of his hands that he still keeps clenched over his crotch, the low throb as Erik stiffens and trembles through his own climax. He grabs Charles’s arse cheek with one hand, pulling him forward, as he rocks into him once. Charles hears him groan, deeply satisfied, into his ear as he shakes with aftershocks.

They stand together like that for a while longer, leaning against one another, heaving breaths slowly calming.

Finally Erik’s fingers slacken and he pulls away. Charles wants to touch him more, and be touched – really, tactilely touched. He lifts his fingers to trail them over Erik’s sweat slickened cheekbone, but Erik just steps away. “That’s what it’s like,” he says tonelessly, turning around and leaving, his arms crossed tightly in front of his chest as he staggers out the door.

xXx


	2. Chapter 2

The next day is normal as far as everyone else is concerned, but Charles just goes through the motions, extinguishing the flames when Alex sets the bunker on fire again, talking to Hank and plotting strategy with Moira.

Erik is avoiding him and Charles is fine with that, he tells himself. He knows that Erik didn’t push him away the night before because he doesn’t _want_ him. Far from it, actually. Charles knows this, because with every image and thought of lust and desire he had experienced from Erik in the study, there was a low thrumming of shame and guilt, and a deep-rooted helplessness. Erik can never change who he is – Jew, mutant, queer – and Erik knows this with a damning clarity. Charles aches for his friend because Erik so clearly would like to change, but then, in a way, Charles feels the same. It would be so much easier if they could just be normal.

 _Normal_. He snorts angrily at the thought. _Not to mention law-abiding, and maybe happier, too_.

In the evening, they sit at the ends of the dinner table like the patriarchs they are to the teenagers surrounding them. These are their children, under their care and protection, and partially theirs to shape.

Shape and form, like Erik shapes metal with such ease if his anger is great enough, burning hot enough.

Charles supposes, if he is really honest with himself – and again, what a laugh that thought is in itself – that _he_ shapes, too. He shapes minds and experiences, forms and crushes thoughts if he so chooses, alters wills and twists decisions. He can shape without ever touching his subject.

Charles ponders what happened between him and Erik the night before, how Erik had also touched him without ever really touching him. Maybe it is possible to imprint something – to leave a mark, so to speak – without leaving a mark at all. He likes that thought, likes the idea that Erik might have left his mark on _him_.

He cannot deny that he would like to shape Erik, too. Make him happier, less damaged. _But then, wouldn’t that make him another man entirely?_

Charles likes the man Erik is. He might not always agree with him, and Erik could drive him absolutely nuts, but he l-likes him. Just this way and no other.

xXx

Erik can feel Charles’s presence like a rash on his neck, in his mind, all day. Charles might not actually be there, but it feels like he is. He is definitely constantly watching Erik when he’s around.

Erik tries to find something to do somewhere else every time. He also doesn’t go to the study that night for a game of chess. It got him in immense trouble last time, so he is determined to stay away from Charles. Protect Charles from him.

It makes his chest grow heavy and gives him the urge to dry heave when he thinks about the pleasure and lust that had transpired between them. It was just so plain wrong, dirty, filthy – _wrongwrongwrong_.

After dinner, Erik quickly leaves for his room, almost ripping the lid off his metal box as he desperately fumbles for the yellow and pink piece of fabric that is so much more to him than just that.

His eyes fall onto the striped fabric around Magda’s hair, and unexpectedly, impulsively, he is so angry, hurting more intensely like he has in over twenty years. It brings angry, helpless tears to his eyes with its force, sliding down his cheeks, getting lost between his lips, now salty with their taste.

He grabs the _Judenstern_ and crushes it in his fist. His hand shakes with the effort, sinews and veins springing up under the skin. He punches that fist against his torso, close to where his heart is located – the approximate centre, slightly off to the left – hitting the spot repeatedly, feeling nothing. He realises he is tipping forward towards the bed without meaning to, catching his weight with his free hand. He sags slightly, growling inhumanly low in his chest in his anger and despair. Erik opens his fist, crushing the star against his cloth-covered skin, actually grabbing part of his pectoral muscle, squeezing and pushing to get this feeling to stop, but it just won’t stop. It has always been there and it will never stop.

Erik can still feel the ghost sensation of Charles leaning against him after his orgasm. It reverberates around Erik’s skull, sharp like mirror shards.

Suddenly there’s something else. With odd clarity, he knows that Charles is standing right in front of his door, waiting. Charles probably announces himself this way telepathically to be polite. He must have felt part of Erik’s sudden surge of emotion to be so cautiously polite. The thought makes Erik even angrier, but at least it dims all the other turmoil to a bearable level.

There is a soft knock at his door, and Erik can feel a wall of patience fall into place outside his room. Charles is apparently very adamant to share his efforts at politeness with Erik today. Erik is not pleased. In response, the weirdly polite presence is suddenly gone with such finality that Erik feels a little disoriented at being alone.

There is a second knock at the door, even softer than before, and Charles’s voice asks gently, intimately, “Erik? Can I come in?”

 _There is one thing to be said about Charles: he is fucking persistent_ , Erik thinks darkly. He closes his eyes to compose himself, to get his game face back on. “One moment,” he says with a surprisingly steady voice, and is pleased about that.

He puts all the items back into the box with a lot more care than he had pulled them out, and puts it back in its proper place. With the edge of his duvet, he roughly wipes his face, mopping up the offending tears, and then sits down in an armchair in one corner.

Erik lets the lock snap back, pulling the door open by its metal doorknob and ornamentation.

Charles smiles as he steps inside Erik’s room, eyeing the door with fond pride. “Nice trick,” he comments, genuinely pleased.

“But that’s all it is. A party trick,” Erik says coldly. I need to be able to do more, become stronger, become better – a better man, a better killer – to kill Schmidt.

“My friend, it’s so much more than that.”

Erik is slightly unsettled, wondering if this is Charles’s comment to what he has said or to what he has left unsaid. He dislikes the latter option.

Charles walks a few steps closer, standing between Erik and his desk now, smiling gently, and Erik decides firmly to believe that Charles has not been in his head this time.

Something grabs Charles’s attention. He walks up to Erik’s desk, following the gleam of silvery metal.

Erik stiffens slightly, as Charles stares down at the coin, the _Reichsmark_ , which was the end to Erik’s old life and the start to his new. He is not sure it deserves such close scrutiny, but somehow he also wants Charles to understand, and the coin is a complicatedly tangled part of it.

“May I?” Charles asks quietly, reaching out, but stopping before he touches the coin. He respects Erik’s possessions as his, knows of the boundaries Erik likes to keep, even if Charles sometimes forgets not to touch him so often. Charles tries to accommodate him where he can, but he is a tactile person; sometimes he does it without thinking. It would feel unnatural and stiltedly formal not to do so. Erik never seemed to have minded too much in the past, but now Charles is not sure anymore. He wonders if that weird shared intimate experience – Charles shies away from calling it sex – has changed something. _A stupid thought_ , Charles admonishes himself. _It has **definitely** changed something_. The question is whether it has been a damaging change or something they can build upon.

He tries to amend the transgressions of his hands on so many occasions before by respecting Erik’s personal possessions now all the more. He would never have touched that star had it not fallen on the floor that day, so he makes an effort now.

Charles waits patiently for Erik’s answer, fully prepared to be rebuffed. That would be ok as well, as long as Erik stops ignoring and avoiding him like he has all day.

Suddenly, the coin floats into the air, hovering just before Charles’s eyes, and stays there like it is pinned in mid air. Charles guesses that expression is quite close to the truth, actually.

“Can I touch it?” Charles asks carefully.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Erik says decisively, but not unfriendly. “You’ll blunt the edges,” he explains.

Charles doesn’t need to ask why Erik wants to keep the ridges sharp.

Erik’s face closes off as he realises what that means. Charles thinks for a moment that maybe he should lie and pretend he doesn’t know, that he hadn’t taken that bit of information from Erik’s mind at their first meeting in the water. But he had done it. He hadn’t lied when he’d said he knew what all of this means to Erik.

The coin spins slowly in front of his face, the low light from the bedside lamp gleaming off the ridged sides. It looks like points of light jumping over dangerously gleaming serrated teeth, sharp and pointy, and vicious in their potential to do damage.

“What do you want, Charles?” Erik’s voice is cold, defensive, drawn inwards.

“I’d like to stay, if you’ll let me,” Charles answers evenly, turning away from the coin, looking straight at Erik. He is aware how close those sharp little teeth are to the back of his skull and what Erik could do – dreams about doing – not to him, but to another living, breathing, feeling being. He trusts that it will not come to that. He has faith in his powers of persuasion, in common sense, and most especially in Erik.

“Why?” Erik mutters, breaking their stare, looking away, feeling suddenly uncomfortable under Charles’s kind gaze.

“To talk,” he replies.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Erik rebuffs him roughly.

Charles hears a soft clattering sound as the coin settles on the desk behind him again. “I disagree,” he says simply.

_Erik’s gaze darkens further. So, it is that easy for Charles, is it? How full of himself he is!_

“Do you know any songs? German songs?”

Erik just blinks at Charles stupidly. The question is so unexpected that he draws a complete blank for a moment. “Why are you asking me about songs?” Erik asks, half in returning anger at being caught so off-guard, and still very much bewildered about the sudden change of topic.

Charles leans against the desk, his arms bracing his weight comfortably. “I was just wondering about that. About how much German you still know from your childhood.”

“I remember everything,” Erik murmurs darkly.

“Do you?” The innocence on Charles’s face is only half honest. Part of it is overshadowed by curiosity and a knowing look.

Erik wants to growl back that, of course, he remembers everything, every brutal, horrifying detail – and he does indeed – but what about childhood songs? What about riddles and hopscotch rhymes? Erik swallows and stares at Charles, eyes wide, then they narrow to dark, angry slits.

“Go away, Charles,” Erik says gently, almost smiling, but in reality he is only just holding on to his anger, the wrath that makes his ears ring and his blood boil.

“I won’t,” Charles says simply. “I’d like to ask you if I can sleep here. Please?”

Again, Erik is thrown. He cannot help but snort once in slightly hysterical laughter, but he controls it quickly, and he becomes cold and so very angry that he can feel himself pulling at the blood in Charles’s body unconsciously. “How dare you? How _dare_ you, Charles?!”

Charles winces slightly, feeling it, too, his hand lifting slowly to his temple in ample warning. Erik doesn’t increase his pull, but he doesn’t let it go either. He isn’t really sure that he can. The words are small and bitter and brittle on Erik’s tongue, laced with anger and hurt he didn’t even know he could feel, “How _dare_ you mock me now?”

Charles’s eyes widen in the sudden shock of understanding, and then he shakes his head wildly, his gaze pleading now. “I am not mocking you! Erik, please, understand: I am _not_ mocking you.”

Erik’s head has started to pound with the effort of keeping a tightly controlled hold on the small iron atoms in Charles’s haemoglobin. He lets it go with a wave of his hand, turning his head away. He doesn’t really believe Charles, and even if he means it, there is no way that this is right and should be encouraged.

Erik stares at the carved wood armrest of his armchair to not have to face Charles. He feels sick with revulsion and nerves.

“I can’t,” he rasps without really realising he said anything.

“It’s just sleep, Erik. Just sleep,” Charles assures him carefully, never making a move closer, and Erik is pitifully grateful that he keeps his distance. “I’d just like to be here,” Charles murmurs, _with you_ , echoing softly in Erik’s head.

Erik nods once, mechanically, closing his eyes. _This is what damnation feels like_ , he thinks absentmindedly as Charles turns slowly to leave.

xXx

Late that night, Erik hears soft footsteps stop in front of his door. He has left it unlocked, but realises, when Charles doesn’t enter by himself, that Charles needs a little more permission and encouragement to open it. Erik tugs once at the fixtures on the door, not turning from his sleeping position on his side, his back facing the door so no one entering would know if he is awake or asleep. The latch snaps out of the lock.

The door doesn’t open, but it is enough admission for Charles. He pushes the door open and walks quietly inside, going straight to the bed. Charles lifts the cover and slips underneath, the sheets rustling, the mattress dipping under the additional weight of another man in Erik’s bed.

Erik swallows, but doesn’t turn. He is so tense, waiting, wishing, hoping, but also fearing, dreading and hating.

Nothing happens.

Charles lies next to him under the same duvet, seemingly getting ready just to sleep. Not one inch of their bodies touch. Erik is intensely relieved about that, and yet strangely disappointed. He is sure Charles can feel that in his mind, but if so, he doesn’t react to it, letting Erik have his space to come to terms with this arrangement by himself.

“ _Gute Nacht_ ,” Charles murmurs.

“ _Schlaf’ gut_ ,” Erik answers automatically.

It only occurs to him after Charles’s breath has slowed into the rhythm of sleep, that he cannot recall the last time he uttered these words and felt peaceful about them. They feel so normal.

He is secretly amazed and a little proud.

xXx

Every night, Charles comes over, after the mansion has settled in for the night and everything is quiet. He waits at Erik’s door until Erik opens it for him, and only then will he enter, but once inside the room, he treats it as perfectly normal to walk over to the bed, snuggle under the duvet, and stay the night. He never makes any move to touch Erik, but Erik notices with a little concern that he keeps waking up in the morning with a hand or an arm, a leg or a knee touching Charles. It worries him that it is not Charles’s doing.

At night, Erik realises, he has no control over his hands. He just sleeps, and his sleep is as light as ever, every unknown noise waking him partially to assess, half asleep and half awake, if it is a danger to him or the man in his bed. What doesn’t wake him, though, and makes him profoundly uncomfortable because he feels he should be aware, are his hands finding space on Charles’s side to hold on to, or just to rest against his arm. Erik thinks he should be aware of it if he is touching another in his bed. It should not come so naturally and unthinkingly that it happens in his sleep. How can something that makes him so unsettled in his waking hours keep him deep in sleep at night?

Every morning, Charles wakes before Erik does, waking him with a mumbled garble that is possibly Erik’s name to tell him in a drowsy whisper that he will go to his own room, now, so the children won’t see him leaving Erik’s. He smiles sleepily every time.

Erik appreciates it that he doesn’t slink out like a criminal.

It becomes a routine that Erik learns to accept and then to like a little.

One morning, Charles wakes him, looking sheepishly up at him. The next instant Erik knows why: one of his arms rests over Charles’s side, holding on to the duvet, leaving Charles a little trapped. Erik pulls his arm away quickly and turns onto his other side, his back facing Charles.

He doesn’t really know how to react when Charles’s forehead touches his shoulder in goodbye. He thinks he can feel the ghosting of lips on his skin as Charles pulls away, but he might be imagining that.

_Would he even want that at all?_

After another night, Erik thinks, he might.

That night Erik goes to sleep turned towards Charles, looking at his back, with one of his hands resting comfortably on the bump of Charles’s right hip bone. Erik’s fingers fit just about into the dip towards Charles’s groin. He lets them rest there and sleeps.

The next morning, when Charles turns to leave, he does it more reluctantly than ever before. He pulls back the duvet and sits up, his back facing Erik as he brushes his hand through his dishevelled hair. He yawns and his spine pops softly as he stretches.

Erik takes a deep breath and swallows once before he brushes closed lips quickly against Charles’s shoulder, and turns away hastily as he sees Charles jolt slightly in surprise. He doesn’t dare turn around, but the hand stroking once over his neck makes him feel better than any touch ever has.

The following night Charles walks up to the bed, but instead of just getting comfortable to sleep next to Erik, he snuggles as close as he can with a soft shudder. His breath is moist and warm against Erik’s shoulder.

Erik has trouble going to sleep that night. He feels tense, but it has nothing to do with revulsion.

xXx

The horizon is barely lighting up as Erik wakes. It is not Charles’s voice that has woken him this time. It is too early for that, anyway. Nor is it a noise that might hint at a threat.

It is the soft rustling of starched sheets and the movement of Charles. It takes Erik another moment to realise that Charles is not merely moving next to him, but half on top of him, one hand kneading one of Erik’s shoulders, the other stroking his side. Erik’s shirt is pushed up out of the way. Hair tickles Erik’s stomach as Charles leans forward to brush his lips against the top of where coarse hair starts growing downwards on Erik’s abdomen.

“ _Guten Morgen, Sonnenschein_ ,” Erik grumbles blearily in amused sarcasm as Charles brushes his nose gently against Erik’s navel. Erik frowns.

Charles just smiles apologetically. “God, Erik, I’m only human.” The desperation and earnest desire in his morning-husky voice sends a hot jolt down Erik’s spine. Erik turns over then, taking Charles with him, trapping him under his body. Charles shudders softly, his hands coming up to Erik’s face, cupping it gently.

The breath gets stuck in Erik’s throat, but he tries to calm himself, to push down on the cramping in his gut and just breathe for a moment. He closes his eyes and concentrates on the warm and slightly damp feeling of Charles’s palms against his cheeks. When he opens his eyes again, Charles is still just holding his face and looking at him. Erik can see his eyes darting over his face, reading all the minute shifts and dips of his facial expressions.

Charles’s eyes are huge and wondrous and slightly dilated, and only then does Erik notice that Charles is hard. Erik feels Charles’s body pressed against his, his cock trapped against the inside of Erik’s right leg. It feels hot and strangely enticing. Between his face being cupped gently in strong hands and the warmth and hardness resting against his leg that proves how much Charles wants him, Erik is drawn down slowly, opening his lips before they even touch Charles’s.

A small shudder runs through Charles and he makes a timid sound just before Erik’s upper lip touches his. “God, _Erik_.” Charles’s voice chokes against Erik’s lip and the tip of his tongue. _Please don’t push me away now_ , Charles’s mind whispers to Erik’s pleadingly, _C-can’t… can’t take that… Erik… want… need you so much… so much_ …

It’s the stutter and the desperate whine of Charles’s mental voice, the fracturing meaning breaking under the strain of so much desire and maybe even love, suddenly crashing into Erik that makes him dizzy with the hot rush to his cock. The knowledge that this man wants him, knows him – knows him more intimately than any other creature on earth – and has seen the abysses of his mind, yet is not scared, but _still_ wants him, burns under his skin. Charles is not a compromising man. Not really. Not with this. He wants all of Erik, and Erik is willing to give him everything, give everything to this greedy man. _When greed feels like this_ , Erik thinks, _then I am happy to give_. Erik awkwardly struggles out of his underwear, uncomfortably tight and restrictive, throwing the item to the side.

Still kissing Charles, Erik reaches blindly for the delicately carved wooden nightstand, his fingers scrabbling for the brass knob of the upper drawer. He nearly pulls the whole drawer out in his haste and desperation, his lips never leaving Charles’s, his tongue still in his mouth. It never occurs to him to use his gift.

When Erik’s fingers finally close on the tin of Vaseline, Charles groans explosively. He pushes his hips against Erik’s, their cocks trapped between them, and grabs his face again, staring intently into Erik’s eyes. Still, small sounds fall from his lips on every one of his ragged breaths. “Fuck, Erik, fuck, _fuck_!” he mutters feebly. “You nicked it from the kitchen, didn’t you?”

Erik nods a little awkwardly. Charles groans in answer, throwing his head back, panting, looking at the ceiling. _You – oh God, God, fuck_ , he groans closing his eyes, thoughts confusing and fracturing into each other. _You wanted this… planned for the – the eventuality, that… you and me… Fuck! Just do it, do it!_

Charles’s mental push is strong, making Erik pop off the top of the tin with trembling fingers before he even knows what is happening. Erik stops abruptly, unearthing his own impulse under Charles’s desire, and pushes Charles back into his own head. He sucks a deep breath into his lungs. They feel so small, and Erik is panting like he has just run a marathon. The meaning of what Charles just offered – what Charles wants him to do so strongly that he even pushed him – fully sinks in. Erik leans forwards, resting his forehead for a moment against Charles’s, breathing deeply. They need calmness more than they need desperation, Erik decides for them both.

“Have you done this before?” Erik whispers against Charles’s nose and is surprised how rough his own voice sounds. Rough, but settled, relaxed and friendly. He is even more surprised to find that what he can hear in his own voice is actually what is mirrored inside him. That is new. The realisation makes him reel for a second, the world tumbling slightly sideways and out of true.

“I know how it works more or less,” Charles mutters, his voice made up of only rough, moist pants, “I’ve done it with women, but never from this angle.” Charles’s voice cracks on the last word. Erik squeezes his eyes shut, gritting his teeth as he feels another hot rush thundering through his body, shooting into his groin. Charles whimpers in answer as he is no doubt affected by the mental backlash of Erik’s lust.

“We’ll do it your way, then,” Erik grits out between his teeth, a small moan pushing after the words. He dips his fingers sloppily into the yellowish grease and reaches behind himself. Charles grips his face again, staring into his eyes with an intensity that makes Erik’s breath still in his throat.

Charles leans up slightly, his lips closing over Erik’s. He can feel the exact moment one of Erik’s fingers slips in, both by the mental wave of desire and the accompanying shame of how much he enjoys this, and by the tightening of Erik’s frame. Erik rips his lips from Charles’s, hiding his face in the crook of Charles’s neck as he pants through the resistance his own body puts up.

Charles turns his head sideways towards Erik, his lips finding his ear and his sharp cheekbone, kissing and nuzzling both. Erik whimpers. Charles moans softly in answer against the curl of Erik’s ear, slowly letting his hand draw down over Erik’s taught shoulder muscles, which are constantly shifting with the movement of Erik’s fingers, and down his back, following Erik’s arm.

Erik grows very still all of a sudden, even his breathing halting and shallow. He slowly turns his head. Heavy eyes stare at Charles in wonder and slight fear as Charles follows the fine bones in Erik’s hand down to his fingers and just cups them against Erik’s skin, feeling the movement of those fingers, slick with grease, getting gradually easier. Charles moans openly against Erik’s face, now turned fully towards him, his eyes falling shut as he just feels the slippery movement under his own hand, and feels Erik’s trepidation gradually morphing into awe paired with desire. It’s a heady mix – one Charles feasts on fully.

He carefully slips a finger down one of Erik’s, breaching muscle into slick warmth. Erik chokes slightly, but Charles feels it is from the emotional turmoil brought on by this intimate touch rather than any discomfort. He feels Erik’s uncertainty if this is any better than actual pain would be.

“Charles,” Erik whispers hoarsely, “you don’t have to…”

“But I want to,” Charles replies simply, carefully pushing one more finger forward, sliding both gently against resisting muscle and intense heat. Charles grits his teeth to control his movements, not to want too much, not to be greedy, but God, it is hard. It is even harder when Erik groans loudly, unreservedly, his eyes snapping shut. _God, I could come from this alone_ , Charles thinks desperately, and lets Erik know. Erik curses lowly in answer. He pulls his arms free, gripping the sheets on either side of Charles’s body in a vice-like grip, his knuckles white. He pushes himself up slightly, shifting his weight to one arm, and frantically tries to get his pyjama shirt off.

Charles pushes his fingers in again and Erik keens, head dropping forward. One arm still tangled in the shirt, Erik grips Charles’s arm hard. “Don’t,” Erik warns, his eyes wild and a little desperate. “Wait,” he whispers then, and Charles does, but he keeps his fingers where they are.

His weight now on one elbow, Erik gets rid of the rest of the shirt. He unbuttons Charles’s pyjama top with trembling fingers and parts it, his lips following his hand as far as they can as it travels over Charles’s chest.

Charles groans at the butterfly touches. He tries to keep his hand still – he really does try – but fails miserably, pushing forward just to hear Erik keen again. Erik throws his head back, his lips and tongue ripped from Charles’s skin, leaving sticky saliva spread over it. He scrambles to the side with a full body shiver, Charles’s finger finally slipping free. Shaking, Erik positions himself halfway on his side, one leg pulled up towards his chest, his head bowed, his face crushed against one of his arms. Charles can see the grease still glistening on his fingers partly hidden under his hair.

“Do it,” Erik grits out. His sides heave with his gasps, and Charles feels like his own are trapped in his chest.

Panting heavily, Charles turns on his side, scrambling hastily out of his sleeping bottoms. They are damp between his legs with sweat and pre-come. He slicks his cock, not caring that he smears a dollop of grease over one of the pillows in his haste to get enough Vaseline out of the tin.

Erik is an expanse of skin and muscle before him, breathing way too hard, muscles quivering with anticipation. Charles leans down slowly, planting a kiss between his tense shoulder blades.

“Dammit, Charles!” Erik hisses. “Do it!”

Charles’s hands shake, his fingers feeling oddly numb with nerves, as he leans back a little and guides his cock into position. He pushes slowly forward with gritted teeth, a mantra running through his head in an endless loop: _Please, don’t come, please, don’t let me come yet, please don’t come…_

Once Charles is fully sheathed inside, he stops. Both of them are panting heavily. Sweat from the exertion of holding still – of holding on to the slippery thing that is control – is dripping from Charles onto Erik, drops pooling in the dips were muscles are depressed, sliding over the rise of ribs, dripping down and soaking the sheets beneath them.

But Erik straightens then, shifting slightly. It sends a sharp spike of lust through Charles as Erik’s inner muscles squeeze him involuntarily at the movement. Charles’s hips snap forward of their own accord and Erik grunts sharply.

“Shit! Sorry, sorry, sorry!” Charles apologises frantically, trying to move away awkwardly, bent on stopping this before he hurts Erik, but Erik just shakes his head, snarling sharply, “Stop moving!”

Charles instantly stops his struggling, going very still, not daring to even breathe.

Erik gulps in a couple of calming breathes himself, and then a predatory smile tinged with a wicked gleam spreads across his face as he looks over his shoulder. “No, it’s ok. That was… actually…. it felt good. You surprised me, that’s all. God… good.” Erik leans his head down on his arms again, bowing his back, then pushing his arse back in a fluid roll against Charles. “ _So gut_. ” Erik groans the last two words, close to total abandon. Charles can almost feel how Erik’s lips stretch over the unfamiliar, yet similar sounds, reclaiming them as his own, making them smoulder with eroticism. Charles hears a whimper and is surprised that it is his own. He might have more of a liking for languages than he was previously aware of. Who knew?

He snaps back to the moment almost violently as Erik shifts again, his back muscles straining as he moves back and rolls his hips slowly. Erik’s left hand reaches back and grips Charles’s upper thigh where it is aligned with his bent leg whether to steady himself or to anchor Charles, neither man is sure. Charles places his hand over Erik’s, his fingers fitting perfectly into the hollows between Erik’s own. Erik actually sobs quietly at the touch, his hand continually flexing and relaxing under Charles’s as if he is grasping for him, as if Erik is afraid he might be gone the next moment.

Carefully, Charles starts to move, matching the slowly building rhythm Erik has set, meeting Erik’s movements back with his own thrusts forward. Charles groans as the sensations intensify, and he unabashedly sends Erik the mental excess, making him pant huskily and shiver.

Charles is babbling lowly, breathlessly, about how great Erik is, how close he feels to him, how much he likes this, how extraordinary it is to be given this. Erik is babbling breathlessly, too. His husky German becomes more and more melodic, harsh consonants blunted by speed and dialect. Charles feels drunk on this language, getting not only the lovely sounds, but the emotional meaning behind them from Erik as well.

“Lean into me,” Erik whispers hesitantly between foreign words, afraid Charles might hear him, and at the same time, hoping that he does. Erik’s voice is so small and soft, it makes Charles’s heart ache. As if he would ever deny such a request for more touch and closeness. He leans forward, his chest and belly sliding easily, slickly, against Erik’s sweat covered back. His skin is so wonderfully hot.

Erik groans, and it sounds intensely relieved and grateful.

His weight now supported by Erik’s back, Charles leaves their left hands intertwined on his upper thigh, but strokes his other hand over Erik’s right shoulder muscle, kneading gently. Erik shudders, his breath catching on a timid, wet sound in his throat. Charles lets his flat palm slide over Erik’s upper arm, down to the elbow, his fingers dipping and circling over the sensitive inner side. His name is a tiny, shuddering sound on Erik’s breath. Charles mouths the back of Erik’s neck gently while his hand strokes further down along the muscles in Erik’s lower arm to finally cover his hand. Charles entwines their right hands as well, pulling Erik closer.

It feels like something just gives. Something just releases deep inside Erik’s being, loosening its grip on his core. Charles can feel it, too. It feels oddly like water washing dry, sterile ash from the tongue, from a throat parched with thirst, and in a moment of odd detachment, Charles realises that German alone has never been Erik’s mother tongue.

Erik takes a shuddering breath and the thought is gone from Charles’s mind.

Erik moans, his breaths making his chest expand and shudder underneath Charles. Charles loves that he can feel that so close to his own body, that every breath Erik takes literally moves him.

Erik’s sides heave, moving, sliding on sweat against Charles’s chest, ribs shifting under the skin, rubbing against Charles’s nipples. Charles grunts softly against Erik’s neck, letting his tongue sneak out to taste the salty sweat slicking his skin. He follows the sudden feral surge from deep within himself, and closes his mouth over the back of Erik’s neck. Erik’s breath hitches, but Charles doesn’t stop there. His hips still moving in rhythmic thrusts, he lets his teeth close slowly, skin and sinewy muscle trapped between them. Erik’s breath hitches again – a deeper intake – and shudders out of him. His hands grab and release what hold he has on Charles repeatedly, uncoordinatedly.

Charles increases the pressure slowly, but determinedly, worrying, massaging the flesh with his teeth. Hollowing his cheeks slightly, he sucks it in and pulls back a little. It will leave a bruise – God, Charles wants there to be a bruise - a reminder, undeniable evidence that they are doing this. Charles surprises himself by the deep growling moan pushing out against his teeth and lips, Erik’s flesh still trapped between them. Erik whimpers lowly, getting a wave of Charles’s feral lust mixed with his own. He shudders, his ribs expanding underneath Charles again in a deep gulp of breath.

Erik cannot stop shuddering. It is as if his whole body just won’t release this sweet, torturous tension. He groans and curves his spine, pushing back at Charles, and feels how Charles shifts inside him, brushing against that nub of nerves that sends the tension spiralling ever higher. His hands clamp and release the hold they have on Charles, massaging his thigh and grabbing onto the fingers snuggled between his own. The tension seems to mount in his chest, now, restricting his breathing to wet sobs and whimpers.

Releasing his grip on Erik’s hand on his thigh, Charles leans forward again, snaking his free hand underneath, stroking along Erik’s stomach and ever lower. Erik keens softly, the sound forced out louder or lower depending on Charles’s thrusts inside him. _God, the thought alone…_ Erik cannot really grasp that thought clearly, but it sends a sizzling jolt from his groin up his spine. _Touch me, touchmetouchmetouchme_ , he chants inside his mind, waiting in tense anticipation for Charles’s hand to finally reach its destination.

Charles is already stroking along his pubic hair, and it won’t be long, but God, Charles is a tease!

Erik cants his hips even more, hoping that it will shift the hand finally to touch his cock. It doesn’t, but it shifts Charles’s position inside him enough to brush over his prostate again and Erik whimpers.

And then, finally, in a strong-gripped slide, Charles closes his hand over Erik’s cock and pulls.

The wave of tension that has caught Erick’s body in its grip for so long finally crests and releases. He comes with a long, drawn-out shout into the pillow, biting it as he shudders, his fingers around Charles’s cramping involuntarily into a strong grip.

Erik is only dimly aware of Charles tensing also, his thrusts suddenly erratic. He feels Charles’s nose push against that spot on his neck, panting against the abused skin as he comes. It sends little shocks of pleasure down Erik’s neck, blooming in his chest.

They both pant and gasp in unison, Erik muffled by the pillow, Charles’s breath dampening the back of Erik’s neck. Their breathing slows gradually, and finally, Erik releases his grip on Charles’s hand. He feels Charles smile against his skin with a small huff of air as he opens and closes his hand to bring back the circulation.

Charles brushes his open lips once again along Erik’s neck as he carefully pulls free. Erik grunts softly. He turns around instantly, gathering Charles in his arms, and almost crushes him against his chest.

Erik’s breath has become irregular again, his chest pushing against Charles’s cheek in little hiccups of movement. Charles is a little worried, but feels that maybe Erik just needs this, and gives him time to collect himself again.

 _I will keep you safe_ , Erik thinks. The thought is frightening and comforting all at once, reverberating around his head like the echo of a gunshot, all the implications and sense memories following this image. Charles feels them swirl around Erik’s mind in a deafening maelstrom, only calmed a little by the feeling of his face pressed against Erik’s chest.

“I’m ok, Erik,” Charles answers. He isn’t really sure that he should alert Erik to the fact that he has heard what is going on in Erik’s head, but he feels that honesty might be the best bet, despite the tricky subject of him being in Erik’s mind again unasked. There isn’t much he can do to prevent it, anyway. Sex always screws with his control like this.

“I’m ok, Erik”, Charles repeats, disentangling himself from Erik and brushing a hand against the side of Erik’s face. “I can protect myself. I can keep myself safe.” It is meant as a calming statement, not a patronising or annoyed one. Charles smiles warmly at Erik.

Erik closes his eyes at the brush of Charles’s warm hand against his cheek and sighs softly, murmuring, “I would never insult you by implying that you need protection.”

“You just did, Erik. I am not weak. I don’t break easily,” Charles assures him earnestly.

_Maybe your mind doesn’t, but your body could so easily be broken_ , Erik thinks, but doesn’t comment. 

xXx


	3. Chapter 3

Erik lies in bed alone and thinks about the mother whose face he cannot recall - about the metal slug which he so clearly can.

He gets up, looks for his metal box in its rightful place. When he opens the lid, the yellow and pink star stares back at him. He looks at it for a moment: a piece of fabric. He shifts the item aside and gets his gun from underneath. Then he looks for Charles.

There is something he wants to try. _And if it makes Charles uncomfortable that is only fair_ , Erik thinks with quiet malice. This man has made him go through hell emotionally – with good intentions, yes – but it is far from what Erik would ever call comfortable. He is not about to let a little selfish payback go unrealised. It will also be for Charles’s own good, if Erik can manage to do it.

When he has finally managed an uncomfortable-looking Charles into it, they stand on the gravel in front of the house, facing each other. Erik can see the constant flicker of discomfort on Charles’s face, and feels proud. _I suffered for you; you suffer for me now, my friend_.

The click of the hammer being pulled back on the gun is strangely familiar to Erik in its finality.

“You sure?” Charles murmurs, his lips red from being bitten in nervous tension.

“I’m sure,” Erik assures him with expectant, anticipatory laughter in his eyes and a feral grin on his face.

Charles’s hand holding the gun to Erik’s forehead shakes slightly. He takes a deep breath to calm his nerves and steady his hand. What could happen if he shakes too much and Erik gets it wrong, if only by an eighth of an inch? A round is not that big. He sighs, feeling his resolve leave him with a hollow feeling of letting his friend down. But there has to be another way.

“I can’t shoot anybody point blank, let alone my friend,” Charles mutters; another flicker of uneasiness and slight annoyance at Erik’s earlier persistence.

Erik grins even wider, showing his teeth. _I can do it. If only I could have done it back then, she wouldn’t have died._ “C’mon,” Erik says imploringly, thinking, _you sissy_. “You know I can deflect it. You’re always telling me I should push myself.” Maybe reminding Charles why they are really here will make him do it, will let Erik prove to himself and to Charles how strong he really is. What use would his gift be to himself, to Charles, to any of them, if he cannot do this? Maybe Charles can show him not only how to deflect bullets, but how to stop them altogether. Charles is good at that – at making Erik stop for a moment to take a breath, to breathe more easily – and Erik wants to give something back, to protect what they have. Keep Charles. Keep him safe.

Charles might be able to protect his own mind and, to a point, the minds of others, but his body? His body is Erik’s domain. It seems so fragile, almost frail to him, but he wants to make sure no one can do it any harm. Together, they could be indestructible: Charles, the master of the psychic realm, and Erik mastering almost all elements on this planet. It is a good thought, a strong one, making Erik feel powerful – maybe for the first time ever, really powerful – free of the burdens of the past, and ready for what lies in the future for them.

 _If I can deflect this, I can protect you_ , Erik thinks, feeling slightly giddy with the raw power the thought elicits.

Charles frowns, and Erik realises he must have picked up on his thoughts – maybe even read all of them in detail. His eyes narrow and his grin, despite still being there on his face, grows a little colder.

Charles notices this, too. He would have pushed them into a discussion about this before, but he has since learned that Erik is different from any other man he has ever known, and he needs a different approach. He lets the subject drop and says instead, “If you know you can deflect it, then you’re not challenging yourself!”

It’s a valid point and appeals to Erik’s practical nature, like Charles hoped it would. Erik frowns and sighs, taking the gun from Charles, letting a frustrated huff escape.

“Whatever happened to the man who was trying to raise a submarine?” Charles asks, as if deflecting a bullet is a small task. But then, for someone as powerful as Erik, it actually is.

“I can’t,” Erik mutters, frustrated, “Something that big – I need a situation, the anger.” _You can make me angry – so, so angry – but not angry enough to be able to protect you_.

“No, the anger isn’t enough,” Charles says.

Erik scowls slightly. _What more do you want?_ “It’s gotten the job done all this time,” he replies with thinly veiled irritation and no small measure of hurt pride. Erik is proud of what he has achieved and what he can do – what he has learned to do through sheer force of will – and Charles just says it is not enough, as though Erik has wasted years of his life growing into the man he is today. _Arrogant bastard._

“It’s nearly gotten you killed all this time,” Charles retorts, completely unfazed and a little too knowing. Erik caves quickly at that, his anger evaporating. After all, Charles – _damn his soft hide_ \- is right. There is no use in arguing only for the sake of Erik’s pride. They have to be practical about it. Erik can’t help but let a little laughter steal back into his eyes. _Look at us both_ , he thinks, _two soldiers gearing up for war – one with words and encouragement, and the other with brute force_. Maybe it is time to marry the two.

“Come here,” Charles says as he turns and takes a couple of quick strides towards the stone balustrade overlooking the lawns. “Let’s try something a little more challenging.” He looks at the satellite dish in the distance and grins. He knows Erik can’t really resist a challenge. In fact, he’s counting on it.

But even he, as a telepath, could never really have predicted what he would uncover under that small but bright spark in Erik’s mind as he tried to enable Erik’s power without the use of hate and anger.

He sees a forgone world through Erik’s childhood eyes.

Erik’s mother stroking his – Charles’s – Erik’s – cheek.

Fascinated and expectant – a childlike, happy expectation - he follows the movement of the _shamash_ lighting the candles on the _chanukiah_.

But there is so much more, now. Charles can feel it pressing, revolving, pushing against the cage in his - Erik’s - mind. It’s a whole new - or rather _old_ \- world welling against the floodgates. These few words of his mother’s tongue open them, and all is suddenly there again.

_Nisht. Gants. Halb. Shtel ayn._

_Nes Gadol Haya Sham._

Rich dough fried in olive oil, the sweetness of strawberry jam from inside like an explosion on the tongue. _Pontshkes._

The clear, _krekhtsn_ voice of the _khazn_.

_Matzo._

_Mame-loshn. Muttersprache. Mother tongue._

The folk songs and musical numbers _Mame_ used to sing for _Tate_ and me.

_Bay mir bistu sheyn, shats. Mayn Erik, bay mir bistu eyner oyf der velt_

_Gelekhter._

_A shlal mit gelekhter._

Erik sees her smiling face and cries.

 _Mame_ loved him. She would have loved him no matter what – no matter the urges Erik has. That was the woman she was. She was Jewish and by her belief she should have strongly discouraged Erik’s leanings, but she would never have abandoned him. Ever. In fact, she never had. Even in that office in Auschwitz-Birkenau, she had believed in him, had never given up on him. Had she survived, she might have liked Charles.

Through the veil of tears in his eyes, Erik looks at Charles. He sees a mirroring tear roll down Charles’s cheek.

_Scratch that, Erik thinks. Mame would have loved him._

_Maybe I can, too._

xXx

After that fateful speech by President Kennedy, they all decide to retire to their rooms early. After all, it is what they’ve all been training for, and they need to be rested.

When Erik leaves his en suite bathroom after his evening shower wearing nothing but a bath towel wrapped around his hips, he startles slightly when he notices Charles sitting comfortably on his bed.

His first, well-trained impulse is to get angry at Charles for invading his personal space unasked, uninvited like this, but his second impulse is to stop in comfortable wonderment. He just feels oddly pleased that Charles is here. He decides to follow the latter, more pleasant impulse.

Charles sits on the bed, leaning against the headboard, just waiting for him, and it seems so normal, so natural and casual, that Erik feels somehow calmed and oddly appreciated.

He smiles a little and gets a brilliantly warm smile in return, but he still feels a little at a loss as to what to do. _What would he do, if this were normal?_ Erik asks himself, and realises in the same instant that this _is_ normal. He would go to the small dresser with the mirror propped up on it, and comb his hair like he always does when he leaves the shower, so he decides determinedly to do that. He is aware of Charles watching him, his eyes following every stroke, but it doesn’t feel predatory on the back of his head. It seems more like natural curiosity on Charles’s part.

Erik feels relaxed. He notices, with a curious twinge, how relaxed he feels, and wonders what he might have missed all these years. No matter, though. He has it now, and he will be damned if he doesn’t enjoy what he has – what Charles makes him feel and like. This is so much better than the bright flash of anger. This is a mellow warmth that encompasses him.

Erik sees Charles’s eyes in the mirror, sees them slide over his body appreciatively, their gaze slowly shifting to a speculative, mischievous glint. Erik would have felt uncomfortable before, lashing out in protective anger, but now all he feels is this innocent, anticipatory curiosity about what Charles will do next, what comes next in this game.

Charles slides off the bed and slowly comes up behind Erik. His hands lift to Erik’s hip bones showing just above the fluffy edge of the towel.

Erik follows every movement in the mirror, finally coming to rest on Charles’s eyes. They flash irresistibly blue out of a wickedly playful face, and Erik feels himself grow warm in his skin. He swallows, his hand sinking down onto the dresser, still holding the comb, but the item has been completely forgotten now.

Charles leans forward then, inhaling deeply, and closes his mouth over the fading bruise on Erik’s neck. He has to rise up slightly on the tips of his toes, but that in itself is so personal to just the two of them that it makes Charles shudder at the mere thought. They are so close, he can feel the heat and moisture of Erik’s skin, can feel the surface stirrings of curiosity and arousal from him.

Erik is so unabashedly physical, reacting to every impulse of his body with unfiltered, honest action. There is no criticising mind here at the moment, no moral code defining his reactions. It is just Erik: the smell of his body, his damp hair, but also the swirls of emotions enveloping Charles. He feels tipsy with it. Intoxicated. He shudders, goose bumps springing up on his arms as his lips follow Erik’s spine downwards, slowly sinking to his knees behind him.

When he looks up, he can still just about see Erik’s reflection in the mirror, now hungry eyes trained on him. Erik’s nostrils flare with his quickening breath, and Charles is pleased. He nuzzles the towel just above the crack of Erik’s buttocks, resting his forehead against the curve of Erik’s spine, rubbing his face closer to the fluffy cotton. When he gets no disapproving sound or thought, but is instead met with a rapid spike in the curious arousal he feels coming from Erik, he tugs at the towel and it pools around Erik’s feet with a muffled rustle.

Erik suddenly sways slightly, catching his weight with his hands against the mirror. He has an idea of what Charles wants to do, but has only heard about this before.

His breathing is frantic now, pushing loudly out of his heaving lungs. He can feel the rush of air through his nostrils, fogging the mirror. Then Charles grabs both Erik’s buttocks in his hands, kneading them, completely unashamed, and with no reservations, spreads them.

Erik’s breath chokes in his throat, getting stuck as he awaits the next step, his muscles taught and anticipating. His arms shake now, quivering under his weight with nervous tension, but he can feel Charles’s hands trembling, too. Now that he is paying attention, Erik can hear the faltering gulps of breath from Charles, can feel the cooling air washing in a quick rhythm over his exposed arse. _Oh God_.

The first tentative stroke is – despite the knowledge of it coming- so unexpected, yet so good, that it sends Erik onto the balls of his feet, his toes curling into the soft carpet as Charles’s tongue laves between his spread cheeks. Erik can hear himself whimper breathily and high pitched. He finds it hard to recognise his own voice like this. He finds it hard to recognise anything for a moment.

Charles hears a crash and a grunt from above as Erik’s elbows slam onto the dresser as his knees give out for a moment. He is lying halfway on top of the wooden dresser, one hand gripping the edge and the other spread flat next to his face. His cheek is mashed against the polished wood, and he is panting and keening. It is the most arousing thing Charles has experienced in his entire life.

“You like that,” Charles murmurs intensely turned on.

“Ah, _Scheiße_! Oh God, Charles!”

Charles shudders at Erik’s words, gripping his cock in his trousers with one hand and squeezing none too gently. He kisses a dimple just above where Erik’s buttocks start, all the while trailing a finger along Erik’s inner thigh and the length of the crease where his buttock meets his thigh.

“Yes, so much,” Erik admits strangely shyly between pants. “ _Oh mein Gott, **bitte**_ ,” Erik whispers hoarsely, when Charles pushes his whole face back between Erik’s cheeks. He can feel Charles breathe harshly against his skin, and he groans. The pads of his fingers are white by now from keeping a hold on the slippery, polished surface of the dresser. Erik tries to examine them closely, fighting desperately to steer his attention to them, because he cannot focus on anything else. If he does, if he only for a moment really lets himself realise what Charles is doing, he feels like he might explode. His arm muscles are straining and quivering, but he cannot let go. He cannot have Charles stop what he is doing. His lungs burn with his dry pants.

“Has anyone ever done that to you?” Charles’s voice is maddeningly soft and - damn him - _inquisitive_. Erik actually feels embarrassed at the answer. He shouldn’t, really; he is the more experienced one. _He_ is the one who – _oh fuck_.

“Has,” dip, “anyone,” swipe, “ever,” tease, “done,” scrape of teeth along his right arse cheek, “that,” another maddening circle with his tongue, “to you?” Charles laves at him liberally with smacking, slippery noises, and Erik feels weirdly wet and slick, and knows it’s all Charles’s saliva. That obscene knowledge makes him groan, writhing his hips shyly. “ _Neyn_ ,” he whispers barely audible.

In answer, or as a reward – Erik isn’t sure - he feels Charles stroke one thumb along his perineum, smearing saliva and sweat with soft pressure into the sensitive skin. Erik shudders, lungs burning with held back groans. He pants roughly.

“Please, moan for me, Erik.” Charles’s plea is a moist breath cooling already wet skin. With a ragged shout, Erik complies, guttural moans and rasping groans and pleas falling haphazardly from his lips: anything just to make Charles continue, to make him happy, to keep him. His knees are shaking uncontrollably now, the joints wobbling. His feet - long since turned towards each other - strain against the carpet to keep him up, to keep him in this position, but he can feel himself slipping, sliding on wood polished to perfection.

“Charles,” he rasps, “ _Ikh muzn_ \- I need to lie down – can’t stand up anymore - God, don’t stop!” he pleads on a soft exhale.

He hears a soft chuckle and feels the hot breath expelled against his skin.

“I won’t, Erik. I wouldn’t want to.”

Erik feels another cruelly long swipe of Charles’s tongue, and a quieter whisper against his wet skin, “Bloody Hell, I love this.”

It is too much. Erik’s legs give out. Holding on to the dresser, he sinks to the carpet slowly, his whole body shaking. It feels odd as his naked buttocks touch the carpet. It feels almost rough to his skin.

There is breath on the side of his neck, a hand on the back, stroking the skin and the fading bruise.

“You ok?” Charles asks tentatively in a whisper. He seems a little unsure which, for a telepath, is odd and strangely touching, Erik thinks. He nods, and hears Charles’s lips pull back in a smile. “Come to bed, then,” Charles murmurs. His voice has dropped to a lower register once more, sounding more intimate, rougher, and all the more alluring, promising forbidden, but glorious things. Erik shudders again, goose bumps springing up on his arms and blooming on his upper back. When he stands up, his legs still wobble, and he feels light-headed for a moment, grabbing onto the edge of the dresser again to steady himself as he sways. There is a hand on his arm, and Erik is grateful it isn’t on the small of his back. He’s not a woman to be led to bed, and Charles knows that.

Charles manoeuvres him gently to lie on his stomach on the bed. Erik is just happy not to have to carry his own weight anymore. He has never felt so weak and yet so alive. Erik then feels Charles’s hand snake under his hips and prop him up. He likes the touch because it’s casual and feels so natural and intimate, and he has never really realised how much he craves casual, but intimate touch. He feels oddly exposed with his arse up, but Charles’s hands are all over his back, touching and stroking, grounding him, and Erik relaxes slowly, sighing into the pillow.

The first lick in this new position is glorious. Hugging the pillow to his face, Erik releases a deep rumbling sound, reminiscent of the purr of a big cat.

Charles chuckles to himself, enjoying the noises Erik makes, feasting on the mental stimulation coming from Erik in tandem, getting rapidly hotter in his own skin. The ebb and flow of those waves makes Charles a little dizzy. His body feels so hot and sweaty. His clothing is too uncomfortable, layered around him in creased wrinkles, stuck to his skin. Leaning back, but still stroking Erik’s back and arse cheeks lovingly with one hand, Charles fights himself out of his clothes. His thumbs brush along the sides of his own buttocks as he pushes his trousers and underwear down, and he shivers for a moment with the current running through his entire body at the touch. He can feel his nostrils flare as he ponders what that means and what he wants to do about this, taking in the scent of Erik’s skin and the smell of the linens around him.

Making a firm decision and refusing to blush about it, Charles reaches up to the nightstand, rubbing his naked body firmly along Erik’s. Erik moans, burying his face deeper into the pillow as he pushes his arse back at Charles. Charles is so very tempted to just prepare Erik and slide in, but he has another plan and, damn it, he wants to know what it’s like. Grabbing the tin of Vaseline from the nightstand, Charles leans back again, his left hand stroking once along Erik’s entire back. Erik curls into the touch with relish. Charles opens the tin and puts it next to his right knee, taking out a generous dollop of Vaseline with his right hand, but instead of applying it to Erik, Charles spreads Erik’s cheeks again with his left hand, getting his face and tongue back between them, and pushes a now greasy finger carefully inside himself.

He nearly chokes at the strange sensation. It is strange, but strangely good, sparks of pleasure running up his spine in an oddly entwined dance. He groans deeply against Erik, pushing his tongue forward, as he thrusts with his finger. _God, this is dirty_. And Charles revels in the knowledge. He spreads Erik’s left cheek wider, his thumb stroking the wrinkled skin of Erik’s balls accidentally, and he pushes forward forcefully with his face, getting his tongue deeper while he works another finger inside himself. Erik’s shout into the pillow at the sudden thrust is muffled, but he continues to shake and make small, choked moaning noises.

Charles grins again, sending Erik a wave of his own arousal, just because he can. Erik tenses fully, frantically working one hand free from under the pillow and grabbing his cock. His thighs quiver and shake with the suppressed instinct to clamp them together to create even more pressure on his cock and balls. When the shuddering eases a little, Erik lets himself slide onto his side, getting free of Charles’s sweet torturing tongue. He shudders once at the image, rolling fully onto his back. Erik just looks at Charles through half-lidded eyes. “Fuck me,” he murmurs.

With the soft request comes a multitude of images tumbling from Charles’s mind. He grows so very hot, so suddenly, that it is goose bumps and not sweat prickling over his entire body in response. These images and feelings and sounds are uncontrolled and frantic, and Charles rushes to rein them in, but they reach Erik anyway.

“Ah, yes, please, Charles,” Erik moans, closing his eyes and tipping his head back in a slow stretch of neck and abdominal muscles.

Charles tries hard not to whimper, but the pitiful sound escapes. There is something else he desperately wants, something else he doesn’t really know how to ask for. The sudden embarrassment of this makes Charles even hotter. “No, I mean… Erik, I… I want – ” Charles suddenly blushes a dark crimson. It is different to have to say it out loud. Being in someone else’s head is intimate, yes, but it’s always _their_ head. Voicing what _he_ wants – what his own body and his own mind crave – is infinitely more intimate, and he feels embarrassed, not at his desires, but at the intensity of it all. The uncomfortable feeling of embarrassment mixes with his arousal and makes it suddenly all the more alluring. He grits his teeth to hold on to the whine trying to escape, and he sends Erik an image of this morning –  how Erik had been stretched out before him, his head thrown back in pleasure – and Erik groans, his eyes snapping shut more tightly, his head thrown back in a mirror image, hissing, “Yes, I want that, too.”

But Charles is not done, and he hesitantly sends him what he wants: what he had seen that morning in Erik and wants to experience for himself. Erik suddenly grows very still underneath him. His eyes open slowly, dreamily slowly, and he looks at Charles, his gaze dark and deep.

He flips them with the same careful slowness, making sure Charles doesn’t bump his head on the wooden headboard of the bed. Erik kisses Charles’s chest, wandering steadily lower, one of his hands preceding his movement towards Charles’s spread legs. Charles stiffens in expectation, and feels his face flush with anticipatory mortification. Erik stops abruptly as he feels the grease already there. Charles flushes even darker. “I, er - while I was… uh…” He trails off, and feels his face burn hotly. This kind of embarrassment is wonderful, he realises with astonishment, and moans for he sheer sinfulness of it all.

“You used your fingers on yourself while you were licking me?” Erik asks bluntly.

For a tiny moment, as Charles grows even redder in the face, he actually curses Erik’s uncompromising forwardness. _Bloody Germans._

_God, please don’t stop._

Charles turns his head as far into the pillow as he can, feeling embarrassed but incredibly turned on all the same, and nods once, not looking at Erik. He hears Erik groan as his head drops onto Charles’s stomach. “Fuck, Charles. Do you have any idea how hot that is?” Erik mumbles against his sweat-slicked skin. Before Charles can answer, Erik pushes two fingers inside him with a shuddering groan, making Charles yelp in surprise.

“I have a good idea now, I think,” Charles chokes out, half amused, half desperate, between breathy grunts as Erik moves his fingers and crooks them, adding a third. Sharp pleasure sparks and races up Charles’s spine like a powder fuse. He momentarily curls up. “Fuck, Erik, _please_.” He is not above begging, if he has to, to feel this pleasure again. It mixes so wonderfully with the mortification still lingering in his mind.

“I want to look at you.” Erik murmurs between kisses against his stomach. His mouth is warm, his tongue wet and sliding deliciously slick against Charles’s skin. Charles whimpers as he imagines being able to look into those blue-green eyes as Erik comes. He nods frantically in answer.

Erik strokes his hand, still slick with grease, along Charles’s thigh, angling it around his waist. This change in position presses his cock against Erik’s stomach and Charles moans explosively. He is so sensitive, so worked up, that the sensation is balanced exactly between fantastic and uncomfortable. He whines as Erik presses his weight down, grinning a little devilishly, but the pressure makes it better, seems to ground Charles somewhat.

Erik is incredibly careful, positioning himself and pushing forward, checking Charles’s face for signs of discomfort. Charles is a tad annoyed at the overly protective care. He’s not made of glass!

He suggests a firmer push in Erik’s mind. Erik’s hips snap forward so staggeringly quickly that it makes Charles’s breath catch in his throat for a moment. The fact that he followed Charles’s mental suggestion so easily, so instinctively, tells Charles that Erik is holding back with tremendous self-control – that he would rather thrust harder, faster and more brutally. Charles moans, finally releasing his trapped gulp of air.

Erik scowls at him, half annoyed, but unable not to feel overwhelmed by the feeling of being inside Charles. “Don’t do that again,” Erik growls in warning, and Charles nods, but still bucks his hips hard into Erik. Erik’s eyes snap shut in concentration as he tries to keep control of his body’s measured movements.

“Ah God, harder, Erik, please,” Charles pleads with a wavering voice.

“That’s too rough, Charles,” Erik cautions carefully, slowing his thrusts even more.

“No, it’s perfect. Don’t stop,” Charles groans. “ _Please_ don’t stop.” His hands clamp around Erik’s upper arms, providing him with the anchor he needs to drive himself forcefully at Erik, snapping his legs tightly around Erik’s back. Erik’s groan catches in his throat, bordering on painful, “Oh – _fuck_ – Charles!”

Charles groans deeply, breathlessly, bucking into Erik again, keening softly as Erik starts to move again, cautiously at first, but slowly gathering momentum and speed.

“Yes! That’s… it. God, Erik, thank you, God… hah… so close, _so_ close.” Charles’s whispers are frantic, his voice pushed into higher, breathier notes with each of Erik’s thrusts. The unfamiliar position of his legs around Erik’s waist is starting to give Charles a slight cramp in one foot, his toes curling inwards, but he is so close, and at this moment, he really doesn’t care. He clamps his legs even more tightly, jolted by Erik’s thrusts, his breathy moans accompanied by Erik’s husky grunts, and he comes.

It is an orgasm that makes his back arch backwards forcefully, pushing his cock against Erik’s abdomen as he keens and sobs through his release. Shaking, Charles is only dimly aware of Erik’s soft groan, and of his frame tightening in the tangled grip of Charles’s arms and legs as he comes.

Erik collapses on top of him, his face pushed into Charles’s sweaty neck. His heaving breaths are loud in Charles’s ear. Charles moans, relaxed and happy, feeling Erik’s weight on him. Their shared breathing takes a long time to calm.

Afterwards, having cleaned up rudimentarily, their tired arms and legs feeling like jelly, Charles snuggles under the covers. Erik lies on his side, head propped up on one hand, and looks at him slightly quizzically, a small, mischievous grin curving his lips. “I didn’t know you liked it quite that rough.”

“Neither did I, to be honest,” Charles admits, looking a little sheepish. “Are you ok with that?”

“Yeah, sure.” Erik smiles warmly at him. “I wouldn’t like to be on the receiving end, but damn, the noises, Charles – the _noises_ you make… I like it because you like it. Seeing and – God – _hearing_ that is just so…. If I could, I’d be so hard just remembering that.”

Charles’s wide-eyed expression at such blunt honesty is priceless, and for a moment Erik feels slightly awkward for it, and decides to maybe tone it down a little in the future. A red flush is creeping up Charles’s neck and throat and there is a fresh sheen of sweat. Erik frowns. Charles looks really embarrassed. _Definitely toning it down in the future, then._ “You ok?” Erik asks carefully.

“Shit,” Charles only breathes, swallowing convulsively. “I think – ”  He swallows again, wiping sweat from his brow, the flush creeping over his whole face. “Fuck, I just got hard again, hearing you say that.”

 _So…maybe not toning it down, then,_ Erik thinks with smug satisfaction.

Charles’s hands trail down his body, slipping underneath the covers. “Fuck,” he murmurs feebly in confirmation as he touches himself. Erik can sympathise.

“Do you want me to…?” Erik offers, wetting his lips. He can see the repetitive rise and fall of the cover, hear the soft rustle it makes as Charles starts to stroke himself languidly, not letting his eyes stray from Erik’s face. Charles shakes his head, his eyes falling shut for a moment, as a moan breaks free. “No, just kiss me, please,” he moans breathlessly, “and touch my neck.”

Erik’s throat suddenly feels too dry. He can only swallow, his nostrils flaring as he leans down, smelling Charles’s scent mixed with sweat and sex.

Erik shudders softly as he feels Charles’s hand bump into his stomach with his quickening strokes under the covers. _We are so close like this_ , Erik thinks, _and this is so… _intim_._

_Halevay..._

Charles mewls as Erik stops just short of his lips, letting himself take pleasure in Charles’s movements underneath him for a moment.

Finally, their lips meet in a sloppy and entirely too wet kiss, but Charles’s quiet moans bubbling up between their lips make any attempt at finesse impossible. Erik caresses and kisses his neck and shoulders, holding him down gently as Charles finally groans and bucks into him. Erik holds him in a tight embrace, grounding him with the weight of his body as Charles quivers and shakes apart.

“Got, du bist azoy sheyn,” Erik murmurs quietly against Charles’s hair, and hopes the other man doesn’t hear. It’s too emotional, too raw.

Charles smiles lazily to himself between quivering aftershocks, and wisely refrains from commenting. He slings both arms around Erik and snuggles closer, not caring about the mess under the covers. Sex is messy. They can wash the sheets tomorrow. Or maybe Shaw will kill them tomorrow, and then they won’t need to. Charles cringes guiltily at the thought. He tightens his arms even more and buries his nose into Erik’s neck, inhaling deeply, trying to forget that tomorrow will ever come.

xXx

But tomorrow does come.

Charles sees the coin float towards him through Shaw’s eyes.

_Be the better man, be the better man, he pleads frantically, knowing Erik can’t hear him. Please be the better man. Please, Erik, be the better man. Please. I lov –_

The sharp ridges bite into the skin of the forehead, gouging through the flesh and bone as it spins lazily, gnawing with its tiny teeth through vital tissue with cruel slowness.

Charles screams and screams until his throat is sore, until there is no breath left. Still, he screams without a voice, his lungs burning, his throat raw, the coin spinning in his head, driven relentlessly forward by Erik’s magnetic force.

And then it’s over.

And something is missing.

It’s like the sharp ridges have cut something out. Charles cannot recall what it might have been; he only knows that something is missing. He feels a phantom pain inside himself, undefined and blurry: the dead residue of something once beautiful burned to a shadow on the walls of his psyche.

Charles is only left with a rage which isn’t even his own, and a hollow disappointment that burns brighter than a thousand suns.

xXx _FIN_ xXx

Well, this fic starts and ends with the dropping of a bomb…. I’m kinda sorry about that….

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to GinBitch and Shiromori for the beta help and especially shiromori for the help with the Yiddish. This fic wouldn't have beent he same without you!
> 
> Also, I'd like to dedicate this (and especially the rimming scene) to Thesuperpope, as a very interesting online discussion actually made me write this (my first) rimming scene. Purely for your please, hon!


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